Herron was once again at the helm in July 1972, when plans to erect barricades between the Springfield Road and Shankill Road led to eight thousand UDA men, in full uniform and carrying iron bars, confronting three hundred members of the security forces. It was an ugly situation, the Protestant community turning on its police force. Herron regarded the offensive as a spectacular example of the speed and efficiency that an ‘army’ could be assembled at short notice. It was his intention to build on this in the months to come but his murder changed everything.
He particularly hated the Welsh Guards because they called all of us ‘Paddies’. He always encouraged us to get a riot going with them. Herron had a master plan for his young recruits: you get caught, you get sent to prison and you then get to finish the rest of your training in the ‘University of Terror’ – Long Kesh.
In my new role as a UDA volunteer many things were expected of me, including the procurement of funds and weapons. That meant I stole cars and took part in robberies. Three weeks before my seventeenth birthday I appeared before a resident Magistrate at Newtownards Petty Sessions. I was found guilty of handling stolen goods from two robberies and was given a twelve-month conditional discharge and ordered to pay compensation. My new life had begun.
No sooner had I walked from Newtownards Court when my superiors ordered me to steal weapons and ammunition from a sports shop in Comber, County Down. An accomplice stole a car; we broke into the shop after dark and took three shotguns and several thousand rounds of ammunition. I only got caught because my sidekick, high on adrenalin after the robbery, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He bragged about the robbery to his girlfriend, she told her father, who was a policeman, and he was lifted and questioned. He even squealed on me. I got lifted and was charged. He went to court and got a suspended sentence. I went to court, Saintfield Petty Sessions, in June 1972, and was charged with possession of firearms and ammunition. I pleaded guilty.
Judge Martin McBirney asked me why I stole guns and bullets and I told him I needed to sell them to make a few quid to pay a debt. I didn’t tell him I was a member of the UDA and had been ordered to steal the guns by my superiors because they were needed for war. I was sentenced to six months in prison. Judge McBirney ordered prison because I was under licence from my last court appearance. He died very shortly afterwards when a Provo unit burst into his home and shot him dead as he ate breakfast with his wife.
My first experience of jail was the Women’s Prison in Armagh. I was on remand before being moved to Long Kesh, and shared a cell with two Republicans. I was the only Loyalist prisoner there. One of my cellmates, Fish, was doing time for a sniper attack using an M1 carbine on the Army sangar at Ardoyne. The three of us even played football together in the yard. The other two knew I was a Protestant because my cell card had my name and religion written on it, but I told them I was in for theft and they left me alone. Given my age, I should have been sent to Millisle Young Offenders Centre, but the police knew I was a bad boy and had me sent to the Kesh.
There I remember entering one of the large Nissen huts, which held up to forty prisoners. It was a mixed unit and we were kept in these ‘holding’ areas while we waited to be claimed by our organisations. There were groups of mostly young lads huddled together. In those days new prisoners were not immediately claimed by their groups. Each of us had to be assessed by men on the inside who passed messages to men on the outside to make sure we were who we said we were and not Special Branch plants. A network of coded messages confirmed our identities. While we waited for confirmation, Loyalists and Republicans lived together in the same huts. It was survival, but strangely there were never any cases of one side assaulting the other.
Within four weeks of entering Long Kesh I was accepted by the UDA leadership and moved to the Loyalist compounds. I was just a young lad and here I was doing my six months alongside men doing big time for murder and attempted murder. I never met Gusty Spence, but I did hear plenty about him. I did see him once, though, striding through the prison in a three-piece suit carrying a briefcase and accompanied by two prison officials. I thought he was one of the prison directors until someone put me straight. Spence, a UVF volunteer, was overall commander of the Loyalist internees and serving twenty years for the murder of Peter Ward. He was a strict disciplinarian and ran the University of Terror along military lines. Spence was deeply resented by the UDA prisoners. We saw him as hijacking the whole Loyalist cause.
I served four months before I was released. Those four months turned me into a man – a cliché but true. I learnt things in the Kesh I couldn’t have learnt outside, and they complemented my training under Tommy Herron. The first thing I learnt was that I was militarily enthusiastic but naive. I spent my four months listening and learning from those who had practical skills I could use on my release. Through these men I learnt about active service. I learnt about explosives from bomb makers. I learnt patience by simply helping veteran Loyalist John Havern with his leatherwork. I learnt about my own history and also the history of my enemies. I now had clarity, determination and focus. I was back on the streets of East Belfast in October 1972 ready for action.
I was only out of prison three months when I was back behind bars. I needed a getaway car and was charged with ‘taking and driving away a motor vehicle’ and fined two hundred pounds. After refusing to pay the fine I was given a three-month sentence. I deliberately made the decision to go to jail rather than pay. I needed time away from the paramilitaries. I needed to step back. A teenager called Michael Wilson had been shot dead. He was Tommy Herron’s young brother-in-law and I had alarm bells ringing very loudly in my head.
Michael Wilson was ambushed as he slept in the house he shared with his sister, Hillary, and Herron. He was actually sleeping in Herron’s bed at the time because after an attack by a group of nationalists on the Short Strand his arm and shoulder were in plaster and his single bed was too small for the cast. Swapping bedrooms cost him his life. Two gunmen appeared at the Herrons’ front door in Ravenswood Crescent, asked for Tommy and were told by his wife he wasn’t in. Refusing to take no for an answer, they pushed their way into the hall and again asked for Tommy. His panic-stricken wife said he was out. One gunman held her in the front hall, put a gun to her head and the other rushed upstairs. He shot the sleeping Michael Wilson in the mistaken belief he was Herron. I was on an errand to the local shop and as I returned to the house saw the two men making their escape. One even got on a passing bus. The police were on the scene in seconds. Hillary was standing in the front garden screaming her head off. The children were running around the garden in a panic and a policeman was trying to catch them. The police wouldn’t let me into the house.
The death of the eighteen-year-old Wilson devastated Herron. Afterwards he went around in a daze. There was speculation that he knew about the killing and even organised it, but I know this to be untrue. The rumour was started by Loyalists in South Belfast who couldn’t wait to dance on Herron’s grave. Before Wilson was even buried, those same men had already hatched a plan to kill Herron himself. I asked him if he wanted retaliation against the IRA for the death of Wilson. I told him it was easily organised. He said just one thing to me: ‘Wrong side, kid.’
Herron now became a stranger to me; he wasn’t the man I’d known. He told me he was resigned to his own death and knew it was only a matter of time before his brother-in-law’s killers caught up with him. He actually excused me from my bodyguard duties, saying he didn’t need me any more. Disappear and keep your head down, he told me. Herron, who never left home without his Star pistol, started to go out without it. He even wandered the streets of East Belfast without security or his bodyguards.
Tommy Herron died in September 1973, three months after his brother-in-law, ambushed by Loyalists on a quiet road in County Down. His body was found outside Drumbo and his legally held firearm was still in its holster. He had taken a lift with someone he knew and obviously trusted. They drove for a few miles but a gunman was secretly h
idden in the boot. As soon as the car stopped, the gunman pushed the back seat forward and shot him in the head. Herron didn’t stand a chance. His body was dumped in a lonely ditch and lay undiscovered for days.
Many of his close associates fled to England, America and even Australia, terrified they would be next. I wanted retribution for his death. I started to look for targets and went to Shandon golf course, where arms had been stashed, but the hide had been emptied. I had no weapons. The Braniel unit had run away and I was the last remaining member of the unit that Herron had set up.
I went to Herron’s funeral. The gunmen were there, and the men who organised his execution. The South Belfast brigade wanted Herron removed from the picture and had ganged up on other brigades to get their way. To convince the other members of the UDA’s Inner Council, South Belfast put out a rumour that the American journalist Herron that was romantically involved with was a CIA plant. The rumour took on a life of its own and it freaked out the UDA hierarchy. It was the final nail in Herron’s coffin.
Many years later I was told that the two gunmen were ordered by their brigadier to kill Herron or face death themselves. In the UDA, volunteers did what they were told.
6
RED HAND COMMANDO
WITH HERRON’S DEATH, THE BRANIEL UDA WAS DECIMATED. FOR ME IT WAS TIME TO BECOME ANONYMOUS AND INVISIBLE. I’d listened to Herron’s advice, and now I made a decision to disappear. I never resigned or left the UDA; I removed myself from the picture by seconding myself to the Red Hand Commando’s newly formed unit in the Braniel. The Red Hand Commando, founded in 1972, was close to the UVF and limited its territory to Belfast.
Sammy Cinnamond was the Commander of the Red Hand Commando on the estate. He was a good Loyalist and a good friend. He made the initial approach by saying he was sorry to hear about the death of Tommy Herron. He then asked me what my immediate plans were. I told him I didn’t have any. He persisted with his questioning and asked if I was staying in the area. He then came straight to the point: was I interested in crossing over to the Red Hand Commando?
The Red Hand Commando met in Braniel Community Centre once a week and its midweek slot was sandwiched between disco-dancing classes and other community activities. They called themselves the Braniel Fishing and Shooting Club and had a notice pinned up in the reception area. There were thirty men in the group, including an RUC reservist and a former British Army soldier.
I went along to a meeting, but that first night I told Sammy Cinnamond that I couldn’t swear an oath of allegiance to the Red Hand because I’d already sworn to remain a member of the UDA until the day I died. But he said that was fine and I could make a solemn promise to the Red Hand instead. He explained that he’d fixed it with a UDA brigadier ‘up the country’ so that I could be seconded to the Red Hand for as long as I wanted. All Cinnamond insisted on was that I put my hand on the Bible, pick up the Walther gun and swear an oath to ‘never betray my Loyalist comrades’.
I did make that promise. I swore on the open Bible to never betray my brothers-in-arms. I thought of Tommy Herron and hoped he wouldn’t think I had let him down by moving sideways. And as I said those words I hoped he understood that although I was now ‘UDA deactivated’, my promise to protect my community and my people would continue under a different guise. It was January 1974, four months after Herron’s death.
After the ceremony a suitcase was dragged from behind a chair. Inside was a tartan blanket and underneath the blanket was an assortment of ‘old rattlies’ that had been secretly made at the Harland & Wolff shipyard. Cinnamond nodded at them and said, ‘That’s your equipment, that’s what you need to do your job.’ I was introduced to another man, called ‘the Armourer’ because he was in charge of the unit’s weapons. He was a former British Army soldier and an expert bomb maker. The IRA was targeting Protestant bars almost every night and the Braniel Red Hand Commando retaliated. The Armourer masterminded the unit’s city-centre bombing campaign, including attacks on the nationalist bars Paddy Lamb’s and the Hillfoot. He was very skilled and didn’t need large amounts of explosives to create a big bang. He looked at the building to assess exactly what type of explosive and how much was needed and where it should be placed for maximum impact. The Armourer could ‘car park’ buildings with the smallest bombs.
The Red Hand Commando had a small office on the Upper Newtownards Road and one of my first duties for the group was protecting William Craig, the leader of the Vanguard Unionist Progressive Party. Craig had no idea I shadowed him. I was always ‘suitably attired’ and for a year I shadowed him when he attended and addressed VUPP meetings. The party was mostly ex-members of the Ulster Unionist Party who were disillusioned with the policies of its leaders, Terence O’Neill, James Chichester Clarke and Brian Faulkner. Craig, an MP for East Belfast, was also a former Home Affairs Minister in the 1966 Stormont government.
In 1976, I married Marlene Leckey. Together we had three sons – Michael, Jason and Gary – but within two years the marriage started to break down. I was away a lot on active service, and, with all the late nights and weekends away, it became very difficult for her. I left the marital home after two years of marriage and move into rented accommodation. We could not be officially divorced until a legal timeframe had elapsed, and in 1983 we divorced on the grounds of my unreasonable behaviour. By then, I was living with the woman who would become my second wife, Leigh-Ann Shaw.
In 1978, I took six months off from the Red Hand and joined the Royal Irish Regiment at Ballymena. I did so with the permission of my superiors and to do a specific job. I joined to learn how to use anti-tank weaponry because a shipment was due, although at the time I did not know this. When the Army asked me why I wanted to join, I said I fancied a change of career. When I asked if we could train on anti-tank weapons, I was told those munitions were at least a year away. Six months was the minimum amount of service permitted, and I made a decision to use my time wisely to forge a network of contacts that I could call on in the months and years ahead.
Sammy Cinnamond was a quiet and logical man. He once asked me how I felt about the Catholic families who lived on the Braniel. Even though it was a Protestant housing estate, thirteen Catholic families were still choosing to live there. In my eyes, I told him, those families were not a problem, and I was being truthful. I was thinking of the Maines, an old couple who lived near my mother. I told Sammy that I didn’t want anyone touching them because they were quiet, good, church-going people. Sammy agreed and said, ‘The thirteen Roman Catholic families are very welcome in the Braniel. No harm will come to them and they are safe – that is until the day the IRA comes into this area and ambushes a Protestant family. They are my insurance policy and, just like an insurance policy, if I have to cash it in I will.’ Sammy didn’t elaborate but I got his drift. I knew he was talking about retaliation if anything happened to a Loyalist family on the estate.
Through Sammy Cinnamond and the Red Hand Commando I was introduced to two other men, John McKeague and John Bingham. I met McKeague just once, in a Loyalist club on the Ravenhill Road. Sammy introduced us and McKeague and I spoke for a few minutes. I was initially taken aback by his shock of blond hair but immediately understood why people said he was a member of the Red Handbag Commando. McKeague was blatantly homosexual. A hard-working Loyalist, he even printed his own political papers on his own press and he ran the Woodvale Defence Association like a military operation.
John Bingham was a different sort of operator. He was the West Belfast Commander of the UVF, which had strong links to the Red Hand Commando. Sammy had made the initial introductions but then given me free rein to initially liaise and work with him. Bingham was a pigeon fancier and our first meeting was conducted in the pigeon shed at the back of his home in Ballysillan. He wanted to exchange ideas with me. As we chatted we discovered we had a mutual interest in dogs and operationally our work had crossed over in previous years. We had a lot in common. He asked me to be present at a meeting scheduled for the following week
. He added that it was important for me to meet this group of people. I agreed. I wanted to work with this man.
One weekday morning Bingham took me to a house on the outskirts of Belfast. As we travelled there he told me I had to make a presentation to three educated, wealthy, right-wing, German businessmen. They had travelled from Munich and were interested in the Loyalist cause. I had no time to prepare. I had to speak off the cuff. Bingham briefed me further, saying they had considerable funds at their disposal and were prepared to funnel the cash in our direction if we said the magic combination of words. The funding would be ours if we could give them harrowing first-hand accounts of our war with the IRA. It was my job to convince these men that Loyalist paramilitaries were a good investment.
We arrived at the designated place and the Germans were already waiting for us. I was initially taken aback by them. They had word-perfect English and were intelligent and articulate. I told them about Republican violence. I told them about Harry Beggs being blown to bits in the electricity showroom where he worked. I told them about his sister Doreen and her two kids, mutilated by a no-warning blast in the Abercorn restaurant. I told them about indiscriminate bombs and bullets and the targeting of our police force. They listened. They never spoke, except to say thank you. My presentation must have worked. The money was donated.
None Shall Divide Us Page 5
